A Kind of Grief (32 page)

Joanne said, “I'm beginning to think that if you are a strong, independent, and, worst of all, contented single woman, all it takes is a black cat, and you're a witch.”

He nodded. “Right enough. Miss Ramsay knew why she was accused, who her accuser was, knew the charges should never have been brought. That poor woman, with her desperate need for a baby, she didn't want a trial either.”

“Who did?” Joanne knew but wanted it confirmed.

“The husband. He gave evidence at the trial. Why anyone listened to him I don't know. Even the sheriff knew him as a right layabout; he's been up before the bench often enough.” He added, unnecessarily, “Drink.” The curse of the country, as Joanne well knew. “Alice wouldn't defend herself. Couldn't
,
she said. When she was charged, she had no choice but to hire a solicitor. You know the rest.”

Around them, the noise of voices was rising, partly because of the shouts from the hard-of-hearing, partly because the high ceiling made sound echo.

Joanne liked the young doctor. She decided that the soft Highland cadence of his voice, his smile, and the way his steady grey eyes listened would reassure young and old that Doctor really did know best.

“This is your home?” she asked, wanting to change the subject, as every conversation seemed to be about Alice Ramsay.

“Farther north—Caithness.” He went on, “Alice was certain that the woman—heavens, I've forgotten her name—was being beaten. She also knew there had been a previous miscarriage—two previous, as it turns out. The husband was, is, a brute, but only after a drink.”

Joanne did not share her opinion that drink was never an excuse.

“He is also a gullible soul.”

She knew this was shorthand for “not too bright.”

“If it hadn't been for him sharing his troubles with Mrs. Mackenzie . . .”

Or Mrs. Mackenzie weaseling it out of him, Joanne decided.

“. . . and Mrs. Mackenzie encouraging him, telling him it was all Alice's fault, he would never have gone to the police. To be fair, the police weren't initially interested. But then the husband found an ally in another local solicitor, a man renowned for encouraging litigation just so he can listen to his own voice in court.”

He sighed. In small communities, where everyone knew everyone, the simplest of disputes between neighbors could fester, turning into long-drawn-out sagas of gossip, snubs, and vindictive quarrels with the original sins long twisted beyond recognition.

“The solicitor persuaded the fiscal to prosecute. I can't prove this, but I'm certain part of the reason to charge Alice was that both men are set against terminations of any kind, even when a mother's life is at risk. Alice was astonished at being charged. I remember her saying, ‘This is nonsensical.' ”

“I agree,” Joanne said. “Reading about the trial, the charges seem so absurd. But tell me, why did Mrs. Mackenzie have it in for Miss Ramsay?”

Dr. Jamieson wasn't fazed by the abrupt change of thought. “Because Alice was friendly with Mrs. Galloway.”

“That's all?”

He thought about his reply. “The enmity between Mrs. Galloway and Mrs. Mackenzie is understandable.”

Not to me it's not, Joanne thought.

“Perhaps any friend of Muriel Galloway is automatically an enemy of Mrs. Mackenzie,” Dr. Jamieson said. “Sorry, Elaine needs help.”

From the way Elaine was gesturing towards the door, Joanne gathered the gentleman in the wheelchair needed the lavatory. Now.

McAllister knew he should chat with Calum. “So, Calum, when can we expect you in the office?” Calum looked so glum he hastily covered up his question. “I know how hard it must be for you leaving home, only a few days in a new job, then your mother having her accident, so take your time and don't worry about the
Gazette
.” He could see from the young man's face he was not reassured. “Lorna has three months trial as a cadet reporter; she will cover local events until you come back.” McAllister would have kicked himself, if that were possible whilst holding a cup of tea and a pie. Too late, he remembered Joanne saying,
When I'm told “don't worry,” I worry all the more.

Calum reached out to catch the pie that was in danger of sliding
splat
onto the carpet. “Thank you, Mr. McAllister. I will be in the office on Monday.”

McAllister nodded. “Good, good.”

But Calum wasn't listening. His mouth was imitating a goldfish, his eyes wide as though he'd seen a specter at the feast.

He had.

McAllister turned around.

The short, round figure leaning on two sticks but standing absolutely still stopped the conversation of those nearest the open double doors.

“Calum!” she called out.

Now everyone stopped talking. McAllister could see Mr. Mackenzie taking shelter behind the tea urn. Mrs. Galloway didn't move, standing guard over her dining room, arms folded.

One of the old men didn't have his hearing aid in and shouted, “Here comes trouble!” then sat back to enjoy the spectacle.

Elaine stepped forward. Her mother watched, confident her daughter could deal with Mrs. Mackenzie, a woman she had no time for. “Mum, it's lovely you could come. Let me get you a chair.”

“Calum!” Mrs. Mackenzie shouted past Elaine. “Son, fetch your coat, we're going home.”

Mr. Mackenzie stepped out. “We've no had Elaine's presentation yet. So my son, he'll be back later.”

“He's no spending one minute more in the company o' thon Jezebel!”

Joanne was thinking,
That's a bit harsh when Elaine is so patient with her.

The other guests turned to stare at Mrs. Galloway. They knew it wasn't Elaine who was the Jezebel. Mr. Mackenzie was at her side. He was as short as his son and just as upset.

In his grim
don't worry, I have this under control
tight-lipped smile—or was it a grimace?—Joanne saw pain. No, she corrected herself, humiliation.

Mr. Mackenzie must have felt her gaze on him, for he turned, caught Joanne's eye, and shrugged. Then smiled. Then, taking half a step sideways to close the gap between him and Mrs. Galloway, he linked arms with her.

Mrs. Galloway said nothing. But her silence spoke. She was standing proud, in her own hotel, amongst friends, out in the open, in full view, with her man. As bold as the figurehead on the
Cutty Sark
, glorious in her best silk dress—albeit covered with an apron in a clashing pansy print—and even though this skirmish in a twenty-year battle had just commenced, it was clear Mrs. Galloway would always be the winner.

“You tried to kill me!” Mrs. Mackenzie shrieked at her. “I know it was your car that hit me. I know you want me dead. I know—”

“I drive a van,” Mrs. Galloway pointed out.

“It
was
you! I know it was you. It had to be . . .” The sentence faded. In truth, Mrs. Mackenzie hadn't seen who knocked her over, had no explanation for the attempt to kill her, yet was certain that was what had been planned. For years.

Muriel had been her husband's childhood sweetheart. She'd lost him when she'd left the area. Returning as Mrs. Galloway but with no husband accompanying her, it was only a short time before the relationship with Mr. Mackenzie resumed. No one who knew all the protagonists involved was the least bit surprised.

“Mum. Mum. Please.” Calum was shaking. “It's Elaine's special party.”

Elaine thought her fiancé might cry. “We'll be back home in an hour or so,” she said, “and I've saved you a piece of cake.” She was not going to let her future mother-in-law win. Not again.

“How could you?” Mrs. Mackenzie turned on Elaine. “Having your party here instead of at my house? Inviting that whore?”

She had a big voice for such a wee woman. The shriek from Mrs. Galloway was even louder. “Whore? Whore? You get out of here this instant, you dried-up auld b—witch!”

“You let go of my husband, or I'll—”

“Or you'll what? He's been mine for near on twenty years, and he's never coming back! Look at your son. He can't wait to get away from you either.”

“Mum, please.” Calum took his mother's arm. “Sorry, Elaine,” he said. “I'll take her home and be back soon.”

As he propelled her out of the room, Joanne could see that the woman was far more mobile than she pretended.

“Sorry, Elaine,” Mrs. Mackenzie called over her shoulder. Elaine was in no doubt that this was to placate her son; she had no intention, and never would have, of apologizing to Elaine. Mrs. Galloway had stolen her husband; no one was going to steal her son.

“Ladies, gentlemen, friends.” There was a tapping of a teaspoon on a tumbler. Dr. Jamieson stood at the head of the table to make a speech. “Today is a day to say farewell to one of the best, one of the kindest people I know. Nurse Elaine.”

The applause was loud and long, relieving the tension through hard claps, palm to palm, everyone wanting to show appreciation and support to Elaine.

“We will miss you,” the doctor finished.

“Hear, hear” rang out around the room.

“Aye, lass, you'll be sorely missed,” agreed an elderly gentleman with a thick thatch of white hair and a tweed jacket, its collar liberally sprinkled with a storm of dandruff.

“Don't leave us!” shouted an old lady with a walking frame decorated with little-girl-pink ribbon.

Dr. Jamieson could see Elaine was teary and tired yet happy. He picked up the large parcel, wrapped in Christmas paper left over from the previous year, and handed it to her. “This is from all of us. We'll miss you, but good luck in your new job.”

Elaine oohed and ahed, didn't mention that she'd chosen the gift herself, and kept exclaiming, “This is just what I wanted!” She beamed at the residents of the nursing home. They, including the toothless Mr. Meikle, beamed back.

“I hear it's right cold in the south,” she joked, “so I'll be needing this.” She draped the tartan mohair stole across her shoulders—Mackenzie tartan, naturally—and thanked everyone for coming.

“If the lass still wants him, she needs to kidnap thon fiancé of hers and flit to the moon.” This came from the old man, whose hearing may have deteriorated but not his intelligence.

Mr. Mackenzie heard. He turned to Mrs. Galloway. “I'm so sorry, ma dear.”

She replied, “Wheesht!” and took his hand. “It's Elaine we should be sorry for. And your lad.”

The scene between the women had shocked no one except the McAllisters.

Wouldn't have missed it for the world
was the final judgment on the farewell do. The accusation of being deliberately run over by Mrs. Galloway was mostly dismissed. It would be gossiped about, and knowing Mrs. Mackenzie would never let go, they would hear the accusations repeated. Again and again.

But that's Mrs. Mackenzie for you
was the general consensus.
Aye on about nothing.

“Twenty years,” McAllister said as he drove his family home. “No wonder Mrs. Mackenzie is bitter.”

“I wish the girls hadn't been there.” Joanne thought the children were asleep when she said this.

Jean was, her head on a pillow of piled-up overcoats. Annie wasn't; she loved listening in on adult conversations. “I'm glad we were there,” she said. From the jerk of Joanne's head, she knew she'd said the wrong thing. “Us coming made Elaine happy.” The girl knew how to soft-soap her mother.

“Yes. You're right. She's a lovely young woman,” Joanne agreed.

Annie glanced up. They were passing through Invergordon. In the streetlights she caught McAllister watching her in the driving mirror. He winked.

When McAllister switched off the engine, they sat in silence for a moment. The only sounds the ticking of the engine as it cooled and a faint whisper of wind in the cypress tree.

“I'll lift Jean up to bed,” he said.

“And I'll put the kettle on,” Annie offered. She went ahead with McAllister, using her key to open the door and switch on the lights. He had her sister in his arms, nothing waking her.

“An atomic bomb wouldn't wake you,” Annie had once said to her sister.

“What's an atomic bomb?” Jean had asked.

Annie followed the wireless news and felt an explanation was too scary for a nine-year-old. “It's a big, big bomb,” she'd said, not admitting that the news had given her nightmares.

Joanne went straight to the sitting room. The fire was set but unlit and the room chilly. She sat on the sofa, easing off her shoes, and put her feet up.

She sighed.

Closed her eyes.

Then suddenly opened them, all senses on alert. A smell, a draft—a sense of something awry, amiss, disturbed, touched, altered—made her freeze. She heard her husband move above. From the kitchen, she heard her daughter run the tap. She gazed around her—the pictures, nothing different; the ornaments, all in place; the rugs, the chairs, the flowers, gladioli she should have thrown out this morning but hadn't time, nothing seemed out of place.